The Autumn Prince

2. Fool's Gold

"I had previously made her acquaintance," the woman went on, "but saw her rarely. By the time I became aware of her situation, she was pregnant, barely coherent, and shunned both food and sleep. I took her into my care until you were born."

My heart clenched around what I knew came next and a hint of grief bubbled to the surface. The closest thing to a mom I'd ever had was a woman named Tracy who lived eight hours by car to the west. I'd lived with her and her husband Mason for six years and she'd been as good to me as she knew how, but she couldn't give me a legacy, that sense of being part of something bigger. Now my gut was twisting around a simple name, a tattered photo, and the word of a questionable stranger. How could I so badly miss someone I'd never known?

"She became lucid at times," the woman continued. "She told me how you were to be named, Thomas for her father, and Caelan for yours."

I spoke without thinking. "Wait, Caelan was my dad's name? The man who poisoned my mother?"

She smiled in a way that might have been intended to express tenderness and understanding, but it felt cold and impatient. "Your father's name is not Caelan, that was a lie, but it was all your mother knew of him. I convinced her to give you her father's name first. It is strong, as I knew you would be, but she would not forsake her obsession, and I could not deny her final wish."

I had never been a strong man, and suggesting I might have been something more seemed cruel. I stood a little over six feet tall, but I was thin, with little body fat and less muscle. Medication left me sore and put me off food so I never had much energy. A flight of stairs was more than enough to wind me, leaving me shaking and unsteady.

"She died less than two weeks after giving birth. Her mind was broken, and she refused food and proper hygiene. In another age, she would have wasted away alone, but I brought her to a hospital where she was made comfortable until she surrendered to the grave. At the time I was unable to care for you, and as your legal guardian, I signed you over to a children's facility to oversee your care."

"Greenhill," I acknowledged. It was a charity home designed to transition orphaned children into foster care, which also provided for a handful of displaced infants. It resembled a permanent daycare more than the dystopian orphanage of Oliver Twist, but I had no affection for it.

"I did not wish to place you directly into the foster program and orphanages are exceedingly rare in this country. Options were limited, but they were able to give you what I could not."

"Couldn't or wouldn't?"

"Both, perhaps." At least she was honest. "I am not your mother, and I had business that prevented me from settling in one place. I did, however, keep watch over you."

"I've never seen you before," I said, aware that she was allowing me to be more a part of the conversation, like we'd crossed some nonspecific threshold. Or maybe she was simply tired of telling me to be quiet.

"As intended. It was better that you did not know me. Before you ask, I will not explain why. Not yet." She placed her handbag on the table and crossed her hands in front of it. "I hope this will not the last time we will speak, but if you have any further questions, you may ask them now. I will answer those that you are ready to hear."

She paused expectantly, and I bristled at being treated, once again, like a child, but she had granted me an opportunity and I was determined to take it. It seemed like a test as much as an offering, as if she wanted to see what I would ask, to determine whether I had heard and understood what she said. I had hundreds of questions, all scattered and disconnected, and her posture suggested she was already preparing to leave.

I blurted out the first thing that came to me. "Why did you have to take care of her when she was sick? Why not her family?" I could easily think of a reason, but I needed her to say it.